


making me a habit

by endquestionmark



Series: on the front line [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:04:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks in, Napoleon thinks that if he tried, he might be able to forget what city they’re in. He can’t, of course. It’s Vienna — she’s Vienna? he’s never been quite clear on whether characterizing cities helps him fit them any better, or whether it sets them forever apart — and he could never help falling in love with a city like Vienna, particularly in the spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	making me a habit

**Author's Note:**

> I sent this to [Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit) as chatfic, and then it ate me. Area Writer Screams At Own Laptop, the ongoing story, essentially; I hope you like cigarette burns, because guess what? They do. You're welcome.

Two weeks in, Napoleon thinks that if he tried, he might be able to forget what city they’re in. He can’t, of course. It’s Vienna — she’s Vienna? he’s never been quite clear on whether characterizing cities helps him fit them any better, or whether it sets them forever apart — and he could never help falling in love with a city like Vienna, particularly in the spring. They’re staying in the Hotel Sacher, officially, though the realities of information gathering mean that they aren’t spending much time in the suite, and Napoleon is more than content to exist in their target’s periphery, learning the negative space of his habits. Diplomats are never as exciting as he would like, on the job or off it; they all have predictable vices, enough of which Napoleon has indulged personally that they’ve lost their shine. Illya takes night watches, better suited to hours of inaction, in a standard-issue car that is built for inconspicuousness rather than comfort, or on the rooftop opposite. Napoleon knows what Illya is like on watch, has seen him when he settles into stillness like that, and thinks about all the years he’s spent learning to be somebody, to cold-read a room and fit himself into its spaces, and wonders at the years it must take to learn to become nobody like that.

Night watches don’t suit Napoleon, anyway. An empty room, an empty rooftop, the silent streets at four in the morning: who is he supposed to be when nobody’s there to watch? He much prefers the careful balancing act of memorizing while being unmemorable. Being unremarkable is far more difficult than the alternative, at this point, especially if he allows himself to indulge in the standard of dress that he’s used to, and he can still catch the eye of a pretty waitress if he tries without worrying about complications. Night or day, though, inactivity makes Napoleon restless, and two weeks is far too long to stay put without becoming someone to whom things happen. He hasn't been able to sneak any of his usual poisons, out of cigarettes — the person who he is right now doesn’t smoke, which seemed like a fun challenge at first, and has devolved into precisely the opposite — and not in the mood for hard liquor, not without an audience, and too busy being unremarkable to find some excuse to push his muscles until he’s sore, and he feels like he's going to come out of his skin.

A week to go, then, and their target out of the city for the night on urgent business, outside of their purview, or easy enough to fill in when he returns tomorrow, and Napoleon returns to their suite early, or at least before the light is completely gone. There, his impatience is almost slurry-thick, hanging in the air like smoke over the Thames. He doesn’t want to call it a day, but he’s low enough on judgment that going out would probably be a bad idea for their cover, and Illya takes one look at him and sets the file he’s been reading aside. “You need a drink,” he says, and Napoleon knows that he doesn’t, but then maybe he doesn’t — know, that is, what he needs; maybe being somebody else for a while will help — and he shrugs.

“Hit me,” he says, and shrugs off his jacket, leaves his shoes by the door and undoes his cuffs. When he looks up, Illya is staring at him, considering. “Oh, don’t tell me.”

“Tempting offer,” Illya says, completely deadpan. Napoleon drops his cufflinks on the sideboard and gives Illya his best half-smile. Illya is only half-joking, and that’s what Napoleon finds funniest. It’s a strange humor, but it’s curiously private, curiously theirs; Napoleon would rather be part of it than not, and he turns away before he can express as much. He has to keep some things to himself, for all that he’s smoke and mirrors through and through, or he won’t have anything to guard, even in a room that’s as close to empty as he can stand.

The sofa is too much effort for such a nondescript day, and Napoleon sprawls on the floor and leans against it instead, reaching up for the tumbler that Illya offers. It’s whiskey, rough on his throat in a way that he taught himself to appreciate a lifetime ago, and Napoleon tips his head back against the cushions and lets himself settle a little into the flavor and the sting of it in his throat.

“Isn’t it morning for you?” Napoleon says, because it’s just occurred to him. Illya doesn’t sleep, or at least doesn’t luxuriate in it, but he’s been nocturnal ever since they arrived, retiring at sunrise and waking when it sets. It’s curiously solitary, being awake through the night, and that’s another reason that Napoleon prefers to avoid it.

Illya shrugs, pulling an armchair into place. “I am starting early,” he says, and raises his glass. “To nights off.”

“God forbid,” Napoleon says, but raises his anyway, and takes another sip. The light is nearly gone, and through the half-open curtains he can see the lights of the city starting to come through, scattered low and luminous. Illya considers the window, and then he considers Napoleon, the same way Napoleon has seen him consider a target or a weapon. It’s discomfiting, to be contemplated so thoroughly and bloodlessly, at least as far as Napoleon can tell. He stakes his life quite regularly on the way that most people are satisfied with first impressions. Illya, on the other hand, views people the way he does plans: he finds weak points, tugs at the seams, like field-stripping a pistol. He finds what he needs and can take or leave the rest, almost brutal in his efficiency.

Napoleon is too hungry to be efficient, most of the time; he picks up turns of phrase, ways of taking up space, steals and steals and steals memories and moments and leaves nothing but an empty room behind. The longer he stays still, the more apparent it must become that there’s no substance to him, and Illya is still _looking_. Napoleon refuses to blink first, as it were, drinks and meets Illya’s gaze over the edge of his glass.

Illya tilts his head and looks out the window, finally, like a shrug, and Napoleon wants to know more than anything what Illya saw when Illya looked at him — whether he saw someone who Napoleon is unfamiliar with, some unexpected permanence — but, even if he asked, he doesn’t know if he wants the answer. To be good at what he does, Napoleon has to believe the lies that he tells, and nobody gets as good as he has without understanding what must, first, be given up. He tips the glass up and tilts his head back to catch the last of it, and Illya watches, obliquely, because of course he does, but Napoleon tries to imagine what he sees: the provocation, most likely; the performance, certainly; he comes up with no answers, and thinks it must be like having double vision.

Napoleon does not look at people like plans, but rather like puzzles. Illya is not a difficult puzzle, particularly. Napoleon looks at him and sees straight lines, all coming to a point: Occam’s razor of spies. A long time ago, another Napoleon was offered a choice, and saw it as a sentence either way, and now this Napoleon is here, having taken it. An equally long time ago, Illya was offered a worse choice, and saw it as an opportunity, and now that same Illya is here. There’s a certain freedom in being out of second chances, the way Napoleon sees it.

Illya offers the bottle. Napoleon holds out his glass, over the low coffee table, like some Sistine parody. They’re too high up to hear street chatter, but it’s just late enough that the streets are still busy, the first operagoers a barely audible hum, and Napoleon catches a drop of whiskey on his thumb, and then catches his thumb halfway to his mouth, almost self-conscious, though he can’t imagine why.

“What I wouldn’t do for a cigarette,” he says, instead, because having something to do with his hands would help focus him, he thinks. Napoleon is feeling the whiskey, if it isn’t his earlier restlessness, a little now, and that helps too, but he still feels blurry around the edges. It isn’t pleasant.

Illya gets up to rummage in the sideboard again, though he leaves the bottle on the rug by the coffee table, and returns with packets: loose tobacco, papers, filters; he takes one of the last between his lips, and as utilitarian a gesture as it is, Napoleon finds himself watching, and when Illya catches him, he can’t quite shrug it off. “Roll your own,” Illya says, and Napoleon glares at him.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I know you’re just waiting.”

“What?” Illya says, eyes wide. “To say that you are so American?”

“Please,” Napoleon says. “Get it over with.”

“No, no,” Illya says. “I am savoring this.”

“Must you,” Napoleon says.

“Where is the fun,” Illya says, “in saying something that we both already know? Here,” he says, instead, and offers Napoleon the filters. “Take one.”

Napoleon sighs and does, holding the filter up between two fingers; he almost wishes Illya had taken the bait, landed the blow, rather than leaving it unspoken, but then what would be the point. He watches Illya arranging tobacco with the same economy of movement, and suffers secondhand from his restraint; when Napoleon mirrors his movements, he can’t quite manage the same efficient grace, and leaves the filled paper on the table for a moment for his whiskey. He wants to know, already, rather than to learn. Napoleon has always taken pride in hitting the ground running, but with Illya, he’s a half-step behind. He feels clumsy on his feet, even though he should know better, constantly reassessing himself despite his confidence.

Half the glass, then, and Napoleon is certainly feeling it now, enough to ignore Illya’s indulgent gaze; he inhales, and picks up the paper, and exhales, and rolls.

It isn’t perfect, but it’s a damn sight better than it should be, and Illya gives him a half-nod of acknowledgment. “Even Americans can learn,” he says, and there it is, the sting in the tail, better than a compliment. Illya rarely compliments him, and never without being backhanded about it. Napoleon is at the very least used to it, and tries not to think about how he might even prefer praise when it has an edge of disparagement.

“We’re full of surprises,” Napoleon says, and puts the cigarette in his mouth; he half-smiles around it, and, before he can think better of it, leans across the table. “Light me?”

He doesn’t know what Illya sees, but Napoleon knows what anyone else would, because enough people have told him: hair the perfect length for pulling, and a smile that begs for it; eyes half-closed, so that he can look up through his lashes, and his chin tilted up enough to be a dare, provocation in every way. He doesn’t need to know what Illya sees, either, because the fact of the performance is enough, and they both know it. Illya holds out his lighter, flame steady, and Napoleon doesn’t look away for a second as he inhales, smoke spiraling between them.

The moment has to break, and this time Napoleon is the one to lean back, tilting his head to blow smoke at the ceiling, a lazy plume. Illya lights himself from the same flame, and doesn’t look away either. He smokes industriously, as he always does, as if he’s on watch even now; he’s down to filter before Napoleon’s halfway done, and gives him an expectant look that Napoleon doesn’t even have to think about to understand.

“Roll your own,” Napoleon says to the coffee table, because otherwise he’s just going to give in, he knows it.

“Tax,” Illya says, and Napoleon stares at him incredulously. “Teaching tax,” he clarifies, and holds out an expectant hand.

“You just can’t stand that it’s better than yours,” Napoleon says, because he’s never been above taking a cheap shot when it’s all that’s left to him, and holds out the cigarette between finger and thumb, close enough to the cherry that it’s an effort not to flinch.

Illya doesn’t respond to that, but it’s a particularly smug silence on his part, and Napoleon rolls another, a little closer to perfect this time, and next time it’ll be even better, but never close enough to be remarkable. “Yours,” Illya says, and offers the last of the cigarette back to Napoleon. There’s barely anything left of it, but he takes it anyway for a last breath, and for some reason he doesn’t stub it out just yet but stares at it, the glowing ember, smoke in his lungs and under his skin, transient and turbulent, and feels a compulsion settle over him. It’s the same impulse that makes him see how many lies he can stack like playing cards before they start to wobble, deviate from plans and take inadvisable risks and, all the time, Illya watching him with the same expression of disbelief and vague fascination. One day he’ll come crashing down, no doubt, so many suits and edges, but until then, he’s flying.

Napoleon isn’t watching Illya’s face when he flattens his right hand on the table, palm-down, and pushes the ember into the back of it a little clumsily, firm pressure until it winks out, but he doesn’t need to.

It hurts, of course; no amount of whiskey or tedium is going to change that. Napoleon feels the heat of the burn before the cigarette ever touches his skin, and then it flares, disproportionate, wiping him clean of everything but the sensation of pain. It takes him a moment to realize that the cigarette is out, and he taps it idly in the ashtray with a steady hand. He can still feel his skin burning. It takes him another moment to remember that he isn’t alone in the room.

All this time — not that long, really, in hours, but measured in trust, much longer — and Illya still surprises Napoleon. The look on Illya’s face is almost unbearable, and Napoleon thinks of a bare bulb in an empty room: there’s the fascination he expected, but less disbelief, and instead, desire, though that isn’t the right word for it, so straightforward and overwhelming that he almost looks away.

“Give me your hand,” Illya says, low, and usually he speaks like that to targets, people who are scared, but don’t know why, when he needs to give them a reason to be afraid.

Napoleon doesn’t need a reason. He gives Illya his hand, the left one this time, and Illya takes him by the wrist and turns his hand palm-up. His grip is no tighter than it needs to be, and Napoleon could pull away at any time, but instead he watches Illya take a last drag from his cigarette and hold it for a moment between them. He’s waiting, Napoleon realizes, for a cue, and Napoleon gives it to him when he tips his chin up, instigation and incentive all at once.

When Illya grinds the cigarette out on Napoleon’s wrist, he does it on the thin skin between tendons. Napoleon doesn’t meet his eye, but rather watches the crumble of ash and the way that his skin goes red at the point of contact, a little raised, but not blistering just yet. When Napoleon looks up, though, he realizes that Illya’s been watching him instead, and he goes hot in the face — whiskey or want? he can’t tell — and wants to turn away, but Illya’s hand is still on his wrist, steady and firm, and Napoleon doesn’t want him to let go or look away.

Instead, Illya leans forward, and runs his thumb over the burn, so tenderly that Napoleon can’t stand it, and when he digs his fingernail in, it’s a relief, to feel something so uncomplicated. Napoleon wants to thank him, wants to let Illya take him to pieces and put him back together, wants to push Illya back into his chair and become himself through action, with his words and hands and body, until he isn’t sure where the lies end and he begins anymore.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, Napoleon sits on the carpet, and lets Illya inspect the calluses on his palm, an old scar at the base of his thumb, the blue of his veins, half-afraid to breathe the entire time.

When Illya finally lets go, Napoleon takes his hand back slowly, as if it isn’t his to have anymore, and stares into his glass for a moment before draining it.

“You have an early morning tomorrow,” Illya says, though he isn’t watching Napoleon now.

“May as well turn in,” Napoleon says, and wonders if that’s it — if this is just one of those things, part of the job, means rather than an end — and puts the thought aside. He really is very tired, and off-center in a way that he only gets late at night, when he can’t help thinking as well as acting. He sets the glass down on his way to the bedroom, and isn’t quite sure why he pauses by the double doors, except that manners are a habit that is hard to break.

Illya looks up at him then, rolling paper in hand, and his gaze isn’t quite as hard to bear, but that’s immaterial. Napoleon smiles a little. “Thank you,” he says, and though he can’t quite say why, he means it.

Illya tilts his head. “You’re welcome,” he says, and Napoleon can’t tell if he knows why either, but he also can't tell whether or not it matters, here, in the permanent liminal space that they occupy, all that they know and all that they need.

 


End file.
